To Burn So Bright
by hallowgirlfrommars
Summary: "In all his years as an angel, Castiel has never once touched a star." Castiel thinks of what he has lost, but all he can do is watch the stars and wish he could grab one, hold it, until it burns, burns until there is nothing left. Set immediately after Season 6 Episode 20 "The Man Who Would Be King." Destiel.


**So, I was thinking about Castiel and stars and Destiel, and rewatching The Man Who Would Be King...and this happened. Set directly after the end of season 6 episode 20 The Man Who Would Be King. Leave me some reviews. ;)**

In all his years as an angel, Castiel has never once touched a star.

He has always admired them, though. They have always been his favourite of his father's creations.

So, Castiel stares at them now. He is on a hill. He chose the place, carefully-far enough away that the Winchesters could not find him but not so far away as to feel uneasy. Even though he could appear at their sides in an instant, the further away from them he goes, the more disturbed he feels, even though he knows they no longer want his company.

Castiel is lying on the grass. He has never felt the need for sleep, but it's moments like these that lead him to wonder if sleep wouldn't be a welcome distraction. He stares at the sky, at the stars blazing overhead. He remembers nights in the sky, each one before his eyes, each one's light emblazoned in his memory.

Castiel looks up at them and a part of him wishes to touch all of them at once, to let their light fill him up. To let their light burn him. Incinerate him.

And then he would be nothing.

He remembers Dean Winchester's face, in Bobby's darkened living room, Dean's eyes glowering through the darkness. Dean Winchester, whom he had pulled out of hell. He still remembers Dean's soul on his skin, Dean's light as he rose with Castiel, that light burning so brightly Castiel thought it might swallow him up, incinerate him in an entirely different way.

His own voice, faltering over the words, falling in the air between them. _I'm doing this, for you, Dean._

Dean's eyes narrowed, disbelieving. His own voice, stronger now. _I'm doing this because of you._

Dean. You. The words had echoed around his head and he wished he could convey the truth of his words to Dean Winchester, who was already turning away from him, his hand over his face, as if Castiel was already a lost cause to him. Just another being who'd vanished when he reached out, had left at the one moment he was needed.

Castiel stares up at the stars. For a moment, he spreads his wings, considers. He could fly up there. He could grasp one of those stars, burn himself up. Burn and scar and twist beyond recognition, until he vanished, dissolved, ended.

But then he would be brought back.

He senses it. And he would not leave, anyway. He would not leave, not now the battle has begun, not now he is needed. He would not leave.

No matter how much he wants to.

He has asked for an answer. He has asked for an answer so many times and he has not received one. Castiel's hands clench and unclench on the grass and for a moment, he wishes he could desecrate heaven, the light filling him up and bursting out of him and charring and burning all that have destroyed what he had, all that he has lost with the Winchesters.

With Dean Winchester.

_I'm doing this because of you._

Castiel was doing this because of Dean. The hunter is always in his thoughts, always hovering at the forefront of his mind these days. And he seems to be in everything Castiel does, and he remembers the words of his brothers.

_You are too attached to the humans in your charge._

Castiel does not disagree. He merely knows it's already too late to turn back. That he cannot carve out his feelings for the two, the two he is meant to protect. That he cannot carve out the desperate tugging sensation in his chest, the urge to have Dean understand, to allow him to explain-

Castiel tips his head back and stares up at the stars.

Dean's voice, curled with derision. _You're a frigging child, you know that?_

Something had twisted in Castiel's chest then, and he had kept his face cleared, his expression schooled carefully blank. But something inside his chest had crumbled, a burning sensation behind his eyes.

_Just because you can do what you want-_Dean, taking a step towards him. _Doesn't mean you get to do whatever you want!_

Castiel's own voice, surer now, lower in his throat. _I know what I'm doing, Dean._

_Whatever you want._

Castiel doesn't think about what he wants. Apart from the end of Raphael. He doesn't think beyond that, because when he probes too closely at his own desires, other pictures swim to the surface of his mind, other sounds and his fingers dig into the grass beneath him, as he tries to force closed the door on those wants.

He doesn't know what would lie behind that door and so the safest bet is to never open it.

Castiel stares up at the sky. He remembers hovering close to a star once, his hand stretched out, his fingers ready to brush the light, but he pulled back at the last moment. It burnt too bright, flared too warm. It would destroy him, he knew.

But right now, he wonders if he wouldn't touch the light anyway. If to tilt his head back, filled with heat, to burn so bright, so bright that he exploded in a thousand blazing tiny fires of gold, would not be a blessing rather than a curse.

Castiel remembers Dean's voice, heavy on his ears. _Next to Sam, you and Bobby are the closest thing to family I have. You're like a brother to me._

Something burning had seemed to filter through Castiel's chest then, filter through him._ Like a brother._

And even though it was happiness that had flooded him then, there was something colder on the edge of it, something darker. Disappointment.

He doesn't allow himself to think about why that would be.

Except that standing close to Dean Winchester then, standing close to him any time, always reminds Castiel of the time he hovered next to that star. Something burning, pulling him in, something powerful. Something that could fill him with light, flood him, lift him. Something powerful enough to burn him alive.

That's what standing close to Dean Winchester can feel like.

But now when Castiel thinks of Dean, a coldness seems to surge through his chest, a heaviness through his vessel and he lets his head sink back onto the grass.

He thinks of Dean's eyes on his._ You can't, Dean._ His own whisper. _You're just a man._ His eyes, flickering to Dean Winchester's. _I'm an angel._

It took a moment for Castiel to realise that he was pointing out to Dean Winchester Castiel's own ability to kill him.

He remembers Dean Winchester stepping back, his eyes narrowed to slits now, and had felt the urge to step back again, to reach out, to touch. To let his fingers brush Dean's skin. Dean's words, of a few moments before, echoing inside his skull.

_I'll do what I have to do to stop you._

Castiel had felt the splintering in the room quite clearly, the cracks appearing. He had felt the way he and Dean seemed to pull apart, as though Dean's words had broken the ground between them, set them on opposite sides of a canyon. And there had been a fissure, an invisible crack, from that moment on-him and Dean Winchester on opposite sides.

He remembers Dean Winchester handing him a bottle of pills, sitting outside a convenience store. _I know everything there is to know about deadbeat dads._

His own answer. _Thank you._

Castiel stares at the stars and for a moment, their light seems to waver before his own gaze. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, but the light burns through, anyway.

He can still feel Dean Winchester's arm around his shoulders, walking away from that club. Feel Dean Winchester's head brushing his. Dean Winchester's eyes, through the dark, finding his gaze.

_I'm sorry, Dean._ The words a whisper.

Dean's voice, low in reply. _Well, then, I'm sorry too._

And then he had left.

Castiel lies on the grass. Inside him, there is a coldness, a hollowness, as if he has been drained of something. He feels deadened. There is an aching sensation throughout the whole of him, the grass blades sharp against his skin.

He turns his gaze to the stars again and opens his eyes as wide as possible. He tries to let the light fill him, let it flood his whole body, let it burn. Let it burn him so bright that there will be nothing of him left.

Let himself burn.

But he tries and he can't make himself reach for one.

The stars glimmer overhead. They look duller now, further away. Further away than Castiel has ever seen them. He closes his eyes again and then opens them and squints. They are small, tiny pinpricks of light and it seems ludicrous to imagine himself touching them, no matter how hard he tries.

Dean Winchester's face rises up in front of his eyes and as much as Castiel tries to push back, hold down the swell of memory, it rises up too. Dean's mouth, lips parted. Dean's voice. _Cas?_

Castiel feels a stabbing sensation in his chest and it takes him a moment to realise that this may be what humans describe as pain.

And yet just as quickly, it recedes leaving him empty. The cold is back, seeping through his whole vessel, penetrating every part of him.

He stares up at the sky and watches the stars.

Castiel always imagined that if all he loved crumbled in his hands it would be like touching a star, with the worst possible outcome. He imagined himself dissolving, his vessel breaking, his core ripped in half in an explosion of darkness and fury and pain. He imagined himself imploding, torn from existence, too much pain to continue being, to continue being as him.

He never imagined this. That everything, including the stars, would seem to recede from him. That all the feelings he thought he had begun to feel-the sensation of Dean's skin against his, Dean's eyes, the Winchester's voices welcoming him in-would simply pull away, stripped back, leaving him raw and aching. That even that would die after a second, leaving him, not wracked with agony, but something empty, hollow and empty and alone.

That the light would not burn him alive but would simply pull away from him, let him spin in the dark alone with nothing to guide him out. That the stars, far from vanishing, their heat leaving existence altogether, would simply be too far from his reach, their warmth gone from him. That instead, they would simply be ended for him, would simply be gone for him. That they would simply be over.

And leave him cold.

**Supernatural writers, you're killing me. Come on. Destiel. PLEAAAASE! *does Moriarty squeal***


End file.
